


Something More Comfortable

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Lingerie, The X-Files Revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tad buys Scully lingerie.  She still wears it after the breakup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something More Comfortable

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: revival  
> A/N: Scully is wearing [this](http://www.stellamccartney.com/us/stella-mccartney/chemise_cod48152073hu.html) (h/t to pinebluffvariant)  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

She can’t hide anything from Mulder (except, during her cancer, for a few weeks, the accelerated timeline of her life), but she tries anyway. She never meets Tad at the restaurants he likes; they go to holes in the wall where no tv personality would ever be seen. She skips the awards shows and works late. They stay in on the weekends. He comes to her apartment, though she knows Tad would love to show her his place, no doubt as sleek and expensive as his suits.

He’s smart (but not as smart as Mulder) and he’s charming (but there again, she’s used to a prickly, standoffish sort of appeal). He’s handsome, taller and leaner than Mulder, with a practiced way of bending down to murmur in her ear. Most of all, Tad is easy, and easy is what she’s been longing for all these years. It doesn’t take the end of the world to get him to kiss her. It doesn’t take him eight years of foreplay to get her into bed. Both of those milestones are checked off on the second date after a very nice bottle of wine and a slice of chocolate cake that they picked up on their way back to her apartment, and she doesn’t regret a thing. 

She avoids Mulder for weeks, for months, pretending she’s too busy. She is too busy, but she has time enough to spare him. She just prefers to spend it with Tad’s hands running over her back, or with Tad’s mouth hungry against hers. She has never allowed herself to enjoy uncomplicated things; she has rarely had them to enjoy. She’s going to savor every easy moment of it. Tad buys her lingerie and she actually wears it and doesn’t feel like she’s slipped into someone else’s more comfortable life. She makes him a key to her apartment and never worries she’ll find a body or a bug in it. Tad would never lurk in her bedroom in the dark, avoiding criminal charges. He might lurk there by candlelight with a blindfold and a feather duster, but that’s another story. That’s something she can live with.

Eventually she runs out of excuses. Mulder needs her opinion on something. She’s the only one who can understand the conundrum. She’s heard all of it before, but she goes anyway, kissing Tad extra thoroughly on her way out. Mulder, she’s certain, can smell another man on her. She strides up to him and his eyes drag over her. He opens his mouth and she cuts him off. 

“I’m seeing someone.” 

In that moment, the look in his eyes reminds her of the old growth forest in Washington where they almost died: deep mysterious woods suddenly giving way to the raw stumps and ashy, sodden ground, something precious destroyed forever and centuries of peace lost. Half of her mourns; half of her would burn him to the ground. She does neither. She holds out her hand, palm up, and takes the file he offers her, avoiding his eyes.

\+ + + +

When she dumps Tad, she keeps the lingerie. She rationalizes unnecessarily about it. It isn’t as if he can give it to another girlfriend (she hopes, for sanitary reasons only - she doesn’t care who he spends his time with). It sits in her drawer, little heaps of lace and straps. At least Tad had the sense not to get her anything hot pink. Her wardrobe has been basic black and white for more than a decade now. But there’s a black chemise with daring cuts and a pale pink one that’s classic, and there are bras and brief sleek underthings in shades of blue. They might not be things she would usually wear, but they’re not outside the range of possibility.

She wears a dress to work one Friday - a break with tradition - but the fabric clings when she puts it on and the wool prickles against her skin. She eases out of it and slips into a chemise, some daring streak inspiring her to wear the black one that leaves her ribs bare. The silkiness of it soothes her skin. When she puts the dress back on, she feels much better, though the bare swatch of her back still itches. That’s par for the course, she thinks, for working with Mulder. No matter how solicitous he is, there’s always some measure of irritation. 

There’s a hunger in Mulder’s eyes when she gets to work, which isn’t unusual, but it’s directed at her, which is. She wonders for a moment if he can see right through her clothes. It wouldn’t entirely surprise her. She ignores it for the most part, but she does touch perfume to her pulse points at lunch in the restroom, secluded from his gaze, and it’s a scent she knows he likes. If she’s irritated, he ought to be. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, or so the saying goes. 

In the elevator at the end of the day, he slouches in the corner. “You and Tad have big plans this weekend?”

“Tad may have plans,” she says. “Tad and I have no plans. Tad and I are no longer seeing each other.”

“Really,” he says, his gaze sharpening, laser-like, until she’s certain it could slice right through the layers of her clothing, leaving her skin untouched but sizzling. 

“Really,” she says, gazing back at him, and she knows he’ll see it as a challenge.

“Would you say you’re on the rebound then, Doctor Scully?” he murmurs, edging closer. 

“Some might say that,” she agrees. 

“Going to prowl the mean streets of DC?” he asks.

“That sounds out of character,” she says.

“Does it?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, and she flushes hotly, remember Philadelphia.

“For the most part,” she says. “We all have our moments. Youthful indiscretions, one might say.”

“Easy to find in a Georgetown bar,” he teases.

“If that’s what I wanted,” she says. 

“What do you want?” he murmurs in that voice that goes straight through her the way it always has. Her body pulses in response, her knees wobbling. She leans against the bar in the elevator and bares the line of her throat to him as she considers her response.

“An indulgence,” she says at last, looking up at him through her lashes. She has never had to play the coquette with Mulder, but the way the chemise whispers over her skin is making her daring. She is playing out her own fantasy, some approximation of someone’s normal life, flirting with a coworker, ignoring their history. “Something aged enough to be worth picking up. A nice bottle of wine. A cheese with character.”

“Something worth your while,” he says. 

“Of course,” she tells him. 

“Melts in your mouth,” he suggests.

“Or in my hand,” she says diffidently. “Or wherever.”

“I think I know what you need,” he says. 

“You always think that,” she tells him.

“And how often am I right?” he asks, shifting closer.

“Too often,” she tells him, her finger hooking into his pocket and gently tugging.

They end up at her place, his hands on her hips as she opens the door, his erection nudging insistently at her. He is sliding down the zipper of her dress as they stumble into her apartment. He stops two-thirds of the way down, his face somewhere between desire and astonishment.

“Scully,” he says, “when did you start wearing lingerie to work?”

“I guess that’s a mystery you’ll never solve,” she tells him, shrugging out of her dress and pushing it down so that it pools around her feet. His eyes trace each scallop of the lace. 

“O’Malley has taste,” he says. “I’ll give him that.”

“Maybe I bought it myself,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Not unless it was another indulgence. Cutouts aren’t your style.”

“Well,” she says, a little stung, “here I am, wearing lingerie another man chose. What are you going to do?”

“Make it ours,” he says, and his hands smooth the fabric over her breasts, her hips, her ass, her back. His lips sear the tender skin of her neck. His fingers are everywhere, deft and skilled, hooking through the sides of her underwear, unhooking the clasp of her bra. He slides the straps down her arms but leaves the slip on. Her own fingers undress him with the ease of long practice, and when he’s naked, he pulls her onto his lap, tumbling them both into an armchair she’s always loved. The slip rides up her thighs as she straddles him. His mouth leaves hot damp circles on the fabric over her nipples as he teases her. Her back arches, the slip loose against her ribs and tight over her breasts as her muscles go taut. She rides him hard and he bucks up into her, possessive and masterful in a way she always thought she’d hate, but at least this once, she’s relishing it. His fingers stroke her clit roughly as she moves. The slip is damp with their sweat, with their desire. She shudders with her orgasm, her pleasure ripping through her like silk tearing, a juddering, shivery sensation that goes on forever. Mulder hisses through his teeth, sounding satisfied, and she leans forward and nips at his neck, finding the spot she discovered by accident years ago that makes him groan. She rises and sinks over him, lapping at the salt of his skin, until he slips an arm around her hips, holding her down, and buries his face in her breasts as he thrusts hard into her, shaking apart in her embrace.

“I should write Tad a thank-you note,” he says when they’ve rediscovered words.

She rolls her eyes at him and then lays her head over his heart. She rests against his chest, dazed and dozy, listening to his heart beat. It slows in a reasonable window of time. He’s been keeping fit. She can’t stop the old habits of caring for him.

“I should get up,” she says to the room.

“Mm,” he agrees. “Or you could stay right here.” He strokes her back, his palm sliding over satin and skin and satin again. She presses into his touch.

“Then neither of us will be able to get up,” she says. “We’re not in our thirties anymore.”

“Let me pretend,” he says, but he helps her up. They pad to the bathroom to clean up. She exiles him while she pees. Two decades of seeing each other in the worst of situations and she still has limits. It seems both futile and charming, to close doors between them.

“I like that slip on you,” Mulder says when she comes back out to meet him.

“Yes, I guessed that,” she says. 

“You always keep me guessing,” he says. “It’s only fair.”

“Likewise,” she tells him. “I didn’t think you were jealous of Tad.”

“I’ve always been jealous when it comes to you,” he says. “Frankly, I never did a good job of hiding it. I thought it made you upset.”

“It did,” she says thoughtfully. “But not this time.”

His smile is wry. “So you like it when I act like a possessive asshole?”

“Just the first part,” she says. “It’s nice to feel wanted. But only on special occasions.”

“Christmas, birthday, Earth Day, Thanksgiving,” he starts to say, and she cuts him off with a kiss.

“I didn’t know today was a special occasion,” he murmurs.

She shifts the length of her body against his. “Sometimes holidays sneak up on you. We haven’t celebrated Make-Up Day in a while.”

“I always forget to buy you a present for Make-Up Day,” he jokes.

“You got me exactly what I wanted,” she tells him.

“I can give it to you again in an hour or so,” he says. “If that’s something you’re interested in.” He yawns. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m interested. If you don’t have any plans.”

“My calendar’s clear.” He wraps her in his arms, resting his cheek on her head. She leans into him. She’s never felt more safe than when she’s been tucked under his chin, regardless of the circumstances. 

“What happens tomorrow?” he says quietly, his voice a rumble in her ear.

“We take it from here,” she says. 

“We broke up for a reason,” he reminds her.

“We were together for a reason,” she counters. “Mulder, if it works, it works. If it doesn’t, that’s okay.”

“Do you want it to work?” he asks. She’s glad she isn’t looking at him, that she can just nestle more firmly against his chest and close her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

“Me too,” he says quietly. “Nobody else is us.”

“Let’s eat,” she says, stepping back and taking his hand. “We can work out the details later.”

They order takeout, and make out in the meantime, which turns into a slow slide toward sex. When the doorbell rings, Mulder removes his face reluctantly from between her legs and puts on enough clothes to mock up decency so he can pay the man. Scully lounges in her chemise, enjoying the feel of Mulder’s eyes on her as they eat lo mein and egg rolls. Mulder tries to talk to her about the case, but she slides her hand into his pants and he trails off as her fingers trace the length of him. She smirks to herself; moments when she’s managed to render him speechless are few and far between. She makes the most of it, and he comes gasping her name. In recompense, he lays her out on the couch again, and his nimble tongue and fingers have her moaning his name once, twice, three times before she finally pushes his head away.

“Can I stay?” he asks, as the clock ticks on.

She nods. He follows her into the bedroom, where they have always made peace, and she falls asleep in his arms, and she doesn’t fear the sunrise.


End file.
